So ... I have an iPhone

My friend S---, who resurrected our computer like some sort of high level cleric of computers, has lent me his old iPhone. It's a 3 series. 

theWife set it up for me then handed it over. I tried to reply to a text. I could not. Then I tried to send a text. I couldn't work out what to do—theWife had to show me.

Me? The person who people (1) come to for computing advice!

Stupid iPhone.

However, thanks to the Beloved, the precious tablet that so greatly enriched my life just prior to TFCWM, I am adept at using touch keyboards; though the iPhone one definitely requires a defter touch. I've yet to suck myself into the world of applications but I am sure that will happen at some point.

Anyway ... I have a tablet—a low-end Android—and now I have a smart-phone, an already dated model on a semi-perm loan. I'm (sort of) in the 21st century—and it's only going to get much better for a girl like me.

Damn it. Now I want that man.

(1) In a 0-5 rating gaming system where 0 is no skill and 5 is complete mastery I would be a 2. But the vast bulk of public servants are a 1. Then there are the 0s. Like Buckwheat, perhaps the worst public servant I have ever had the misfortune to work with. Refresh yourself with her antics? See labels. 

Hoot lauds depiction of penis in submitted artwork

ABC TV Studios; received artwork segment: Hoot, the owl half of the famed children's tv duo Jimmy Giggle and Hoot, has been overly ethusistic about the depiction of his penis according to Giggle and Hoot production sources.

'Aw look at this, Jimmy Giggle,' said Hoot in a recent segment. 'You can see my penis and it's huge!'

Jimmy Giggle, the be-wigged co-host then attempted to sight the penis but could not.

'Oh, Hoot, that's not a penis! That's just an extra line used to outline your leg in the picture!' said Giggle.

'Oh no, Jimmy Giggle, I thought I was packing a significant chunk of lady-ham,' said Hoot, crestfallen.

'Besides, Hoot, your penis remains flaccid inside your cloaca and in fact when you're aroused your penis expands from the cloaca wall and erection is provided by lymph, not blood. Also, I think you'll find that your penis is partially feathered!'

'Wow, Jimmy Giggle, you know a lot about my penis!' said Hoot.

'That's what best friends are for,' said Jimmy Giggle.

Jimmy Giggle then launched into a charming ditty about how knowing the state of your mate's penis makes you a better friend.

Doo doo doo

Being massive consumers of quality comedy—Seinfeld, Simpsons, 30 Rock, In-betweeners, Blackadder, etc.—lines and scenes from those shows tend to make up a large chunk of our couplespeak; the patois you develop as part of living with another person for a long, long time. 

If someone has been "wronged", or wants to register their sadness, then one way is the George Michael Sad Walk.

Arrested Development is one of the finest sitcoms of the last thirty years. It, like so many shows, was cruelly the victim of TV executives not giving it a chance. Such is the way with these things. Besides, for every TV series that makes it, dozens of pilots for potential series lie in their wake. It's a dog-eat-dog world in TV land. 

But the show was awesome and thus many elements, lines, scenes or elements have entered our couplespeak. There's 'I don't understand the question and I won't respond to it' when someone says something confusing; from when Lucille was asked if she wanted a plate or platter at a down-heel eating place. Then there's 'It's so watery ... and yet there's a smack of ham to it' for moments when ham is introduced into a conversation, as said by Buster when 'sister-mother' made him some 'hot ham water'.

Then, of course, as mentioned, the George Michael Sad Walk.

George Michael is not the George Michael, the famed 80s rocker who found new fame as an out gay man with a penchant for public fornication, but rather George Michael, the teen-aged son of Michael Bluthe, the show's central protagonist. When George Michael is thwarted or rendered depressed he hangs his head like Charlie Brown and walks away in sadness, soft sad music playing in the background.

Today theBoy was making a marble tower (1). I saw on the blue table a toy-version of The Mystery Machine—the van the Mystery, Inc. gang drives around in in the show Scooby-Doo. It was a simple free-wheeling van-shaped toy, without any fancy mechanisms to store power; just straight normal push-along toy-car action. Naturally I had to roll it into the base of theBoy's marble tower.

The van collided politely with the base of the marble tower and ever so gently rocked the tower side-to-side. 

'Got it!' I shouted with triumph. 

theBoy resented my claim for victory. 

'Ha, ha,' he chanted. 'You didn't knock it over!'

So I recovered the van then power-slammed it into the marble tower, knocking it over. 

theBoy whimpered ... turned ... and eyes downcast did the George Michael Sad Walk. He was actually genuinely upset even though he'd directly invited me to have a crack at cracking his tower. I tried to explain that I took his 'ha ha' as an invitation but he wouldn't hear of it.

Daddy fail. 

(1) It's not a tower made of marble. It's a bunch of tower components and slides and the like to roll marbles down. You build it then drop marbles down it and watch them roll and drop.

Damn you, Arthur

For those of you without kids then you've likely not inflicted yourself with having seen the cartoon series that is Arthur. Arthur is Canadian in origin and the main character, Arthur, is an aardvark. He's humanoid, is in year three in grade school, and lives an otherwise normal kid's life. The rest of the people in the universe are also anthropomorphised animals of various kinds; dogs or cats of various breeds, moose, rabbits etc.  

Leading up to New Years ABC2 religiously advertised the upcoming Arthur Rock and Roll Special, a double-length episode about some of the kids starting a rock band. Arthur, being a bit of an institution, has been blessed by numerous celebrity appearances. The Rock and Roll Special was no exception. The celebrities in this case were The Backstreet Boys. 

theBoy is only subject to the ABC as far as kids' TV goes so the only ads he sees are promos. They've very effective. Because of the constant appearance of the Arthur ad this built in him a feverish excitement to see the episode. And he did see it, watching it as it played live and as we recorded it on the DVR. Since that initial viewing he's seen it another twenty times.

Today, during storyverse, Humpty and Stumpty came around to theBoy's house. The chosen activity? Watching the Arthur Rock and Roll Special.

I've blogged this before but I am sure it's a common trait of near-in-age siblings to violently bags (1) being certain characters in the show you are watching. I was always too slow off the bat which is why when Battle of the Planets was on I usually ended up choosing third and thus from a pool of Tiny, Princess, or fucking Keyop. If Monkey then usually from Pigsy or Tripitaka. 

So in storyverse Humpty decided to bags being an Arthur character; 'I bags being D.W.!' he shouted. I think D.W. is either Arthur's four-year-old sister or the rich only child girl who lives next door. Anyway then it was Stumpty's turn. From memory he bagsed being Arthur himself

And theBoy? What was his choice of character from Arthur Rock and Roll Special?

'I want to be a Backstreet Boy!' he shouted. 

(Mikey gasps as he takes a mortal wound...)

(1) We had some doozy fights as kids. Actual fight fights. With fists and kicks and improvised weaponry. For the latter I once threw a rope-strut pine lounge chair at my younger brother. My foster grandmother ineffectually attempted to break it up. The fight—not the lounge chair. Oh well, that's what happens with three strong personalities so close in age and with such ready access to furniture and fittings.

Being heavily medicated helps deal with nasty surprises in life

Unaccustomed as I am to regular exercise (1) I find the whole process mostly unpleasant. Sometimes not unpleasant ... but for the most part ... it's not fun.

My misshapen bones and connecting muscle tend to report low-grade ouch signals fairly constantly. Twinned with dodgy guts this means Mikey is in pain most of the time. Oh the intensity varies, but generally background pain is a 1 or a 2 on the pain scale. 

So forcing said bones and muscle to do things to which I as a lazy pain-afflicted man do not want to do means they tend to hurt more when I do so.

When I ride The Purgatory Cart (2) then chances are I will medicate before I do so in order I dial back the pain now to compensate for the pain climb that will occur within a couple of minutes after starting.

But that, alas, is not enough. I need to take my mind of it as well. Solution? Watching or listening to kewl stuff via the dodgy old laptop that is on permanent station atop a box atop a massive retired CRT TV within our unapproved shed.  

My choice of audio-visual stimulant varies. Not having had to drive to work, and thus missing hearing his dulcet tones, then lately it's been Marc Maron podcasts. Today, with The Daily Show lads back on air, it was The Daily Show. 

So this, combined with the meds, means I can by and large ignore the discomfort of exercise with the panting and the sweating and the aching; glavin (3). I tend to also enter a zone out-head space as I concentrate on what I am watching or listening to.

Today it must have been a while before I noticed the spider gently rocking up and down on my pumping pyjama-clad thigh. Being zoned out from a combo of super meds and perhaps my greatest hero in the world (4), Jon Stewart, I didn't panic or freak out. I assessed the situation and mind-mapped possible responses, Sherlock-Holmes-style (Arachnid. Eight legs. Pull one leg off, use it to repel mandibles. Kick once in the thorax then, when stunned, épée-thrust the leg deep into brain-case through roof of mouth). 

But simplicity is best. I swatted it, a palm death drop from above, and, as its legs curled I brushed it off, the spider dropping to the shed floor only to somewhat bizarrely land upright. It looked like it was simply sitting on its legs instead of being D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D ... from life.

It was only then I took in the fact its body markings probably meant it was a fucking redback.

I shudder to think what theWife would have done. Once when a spider appeared she abandoned a car in traffic...

As I left the shed I was wearing just my pyjama pants, my favourite ones in fact, and the headband theWife bought me the other day. I felt like one of the lads from 40-year-old virgin...

UPDATE: A taste discovery—brie wrapped in raw pastry. Good lord. 

(1) Actually, that's a lie. Baring two weeks off for a hip operation I have performed some form of dedicated exercise each day since around mid-June 2008.Almost all of it through the power of walking ... only to successfully walk my way to having a hip operation. Sic vita est.

(2) The Purgatory Cart! The Purgatory Cart! Owned by Casso, it makes you fart!

(3) Freaky coincidence time. Footnote 2 is sung to the tune of Professor Frink, Professor Frink, makes you laugh, makes you think...
(4) Cass pointed out in comments there was no footnote 4. I don't in truth know what footnote 4 was intended for. Maybe a panegyric about Jon Stewart? Perhaps. He does deserve one. 

(Sighs heavily)

Work intrudes upon my sick leave. Well, not work. My personal administration of my sick leave. I had to apply for extra leave because of my unforeseen need of a hip replacement. I got approved to have it and in theory that should have sorted itself out. But it hasn't. Instead the pay section cancelled all my remaining leave then docked my pay to cover the rest.  Now they want me to burn Long Service Leave.

So now I am having to sort all this shit out by email and it's incredibly annoying.

I could sort it out by phone I suppose. But I don't want to talk to anyone. Once the family leaves for the day I go into monk mode where I don't talk to anyone and simply exercise (1) and read Wikipedia. That's what Mikey needs to do to recover! Besides if I do talk on the phone I may trigger the infamous temper us boys have, courtesy of the paternal line, and I am worried I will lose my shit at someone.

Argh, so frustrating.

Plus I had lots of ice-cream yesterday (2) and I am paying for it now. I know in the moment when Present Mikey thinks about having naughty food he tends to shrug and say 'Future Mikey can worry about that'. Except Present Mikey becomes Future Mikey or rather the future becomes the present and then Present Mikey has to worry about it (slash) endure it.

Damn you then-Present Mikey for your decision to inflict Future-is-now Mikey with your poor food consumption decisions!

UPDATE: My case manager apparently has sorted this issue out. Yay for having a case manager! I wonder how I am going to get my pay rectified? UPDATE2: It will be rectified next pay. I also got an apology from the pay officer who had started raiding my leave stores like she was an ancestor of Brandon Harris.

(1) This implies I am engaged in daily Madonna (slash) zen monk levels of vigorous athletica or pumping iron in the prison yard while I frantically work out to boost my musculature so at least the little-sized fellow inmates will leave me alone. This is not the case. I ride an exercise bike for around 20 minutes a day. That's currently it.  
(2) Bowl of low-fat artificially sweetened ice-cream with banana about 2 pm. Choc top at the movies at about 9 pm. Then ice-cream low-fat, full sugar, with banana about 12 pm ... then another scoop with raw sugar on it about 1 pm. It's obvious then what I have to do. Ditch the banana...

Kooky raven-haired beauties need to lock lips, stat!

Clinton Funt, spokesman for the Australian Organisation for the Prevention of Groinal Cruelty, or AOPGC, has issued a demand that sexy sirens Katy Perry and Zooey Deschanel, both newly-separated from their former partners, get it on and get it on now.

'Kisses, tender exploration through to "strap it on, I'm going in"; we don't care what it is as long as something of a sexual nature happens between these two and happens immediately.'

Clinton Funt said that not only can Perry can finally live out her dream of 'kissing a girl' but that it's Perry and Deschanel's chance to 'give something back' to their fans and to help others fiscally in addition to the obvious groinal assistance.

'Look, Bangelina, when they popped out natural number four out of their blended legs-eleven of children birthed and acquired sold the rights of their birthing for millions and gave it all to the children. Other children, you know, orphans and shit. So this is their chance to not only prevent groinal cruelty but make money for the children. Won't someone think of the children? I confess I am not. I am actually thinking of Katy licking the hollow of Zoey's neck then her bright eyes appearing to gaze deeply into Zoey's eyes as then, by some unspoken shared thought, they kiss tenderly and deeply as Katy's slim hand comes up to mould Zooey's breast. And I bet I'm not the only one!'

'These ladies have a duty and expectation that they will have at least one sexy encounter and that it will be recorded in film, preferably 3D,' said Mr Funt.

An apology was then given out to all the overly hopeful people who had the same idea and did a Google search for Katie Perry and Zoey Deschanel and strap on.  

Previous AOPGC Announcements

Call for Alien V Predator match up for country themed phone sex girls

Australians demand a rice dish

And as Christmas elves

Australians demand the Veronicas just do it already

I feel like barely-warmed poo but I am going to the movies!

My big brother is in town. He graciously indicated he'd stay in and oversight the Noodles as the Noodles goes to sleep. And we're going to slip out and see the new Sherlock Holmes movie! Hooray! And I am going to get a choc top, maybe popcorn (I didn't eat the last lot) and of course a big fuck-off syrup slushie thing.

Thank the genetics (1) I am not diabetic. 

I also found out the pay people fucked my pay up. So I get the giddy delight of sorting that crap out on the morrow. Grr.

And a shout-out to Casso who has suffered her own bureaucracy SNAFU and makes mine look like an incidental toe stubbing by way of comparative hassle.

(1) But is un-thanked for poor skeleton; obesity; IBS; depression; looking like a potato; hairy back; and a whole host of shiver-me-timbers that you'd not want inflicted.

As told to my big brother when I got some clothes from the end room

My brother is bedding down in the end room. The end room is technically the master bedroom but we kitted it out with the desk top computer, a fold-out (actually comfortable) couch bed, and our library of four large Ikea bookshelves. The room is the shizzle. It's also where we get dressed as the walk-thru wardrobes that service our wearing-of-clothes needs is also located there, connecting the bathroom with the master bedroom.

As I passed Bod (1) I had in hand my black tracksuit pants and collared sports-esq black T-shirt.

'It's my Balkans' war criminal outfit,' I burled happily. 'I mean if you can't ethnic cleanse in comfort, why ethnic cleanse?' (2)

My problem of over-stepping-the-line is clearly a deeply ingrained one. Though in truth, wrongness aside, it was gold.

(1) I glommed onto my big brother's far more exciting life of undergrad uni attending by hanging around his group-house whenever possible. They lived in a somewhat hedonistic manner of drinking lots, partying, and testing the moral fibre of their fellow female students. His flatmate, E, called my brother 'The Body' one Summer when my brother got all fit-serious. He was looking fine. Eventually it was shortened to 'Bod'. I started calling him that because my love of his life was so great. It is awesome having a cool brother, there's no doubt. Which is why I sat at the band chicks' table whenever his group was playing. Me and a bevy of assorted 'bitches'. Nice. (1a)

(1a) They were not 'bitches'. Most were long-term or live-in girlfriends and were music students or performers themselves. I should point out that as far as preening for girls went my status as the brother of the bass-player in no way improved any access to lady-tasty at all. I was and remain a sad, laughable figure.    

(2) And also in truth I said one of the former members of Yugoslavia by name but I won't say which one. After-all when the Balkans conflict kicked off there was mutual slaughter against and by all sides. Though some, of course, were worse than others. Chris Hedges' book War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning (2a) was a real eye-opener about what it was like to experience that conflict, and how as a westerner the experience was a toxic combination of adrenaline, danger -seeking, and lust. And how easily people slipped into total barbarity;  sometimes against neighbours of 30 or more years. It also savages the then ruling party in Serbia who used nationalistic fervour to entrench political control and this, combined with the economy's collapse, utterly rent the fabric of society and made that barbarity more likely. 

(2a) I confess I love first-person accounts by war correspondents. The psychotic experiences they enjoy and endure are like an LSD trip meets guns. What's not to like? Michael Herr's Dispatches and Orwell's Homage to Catalonia are two of my favourites.

Too much naughty rich business

No ... I'm not talking about the US where CEOs earn 185 times the average wage or where one per cent of the population owns 40 per cent of the wealth—a disparity greater than what happened circa 1929. I am talking rich food business.

With my big bro in town—rarely seen as he works overseas—we headed out to the Erindale food strip—a street of 20 or so shops of which most sell food or drink—to see what was open. Both Thai places, which are both awesome Thai places but alas only Basil does home delivery, were closed so we ordered Crust instead (1).

And don't get me wrong. It was good. Very good.

Only ... we also had to get a dessert too. And we were in Erindale...

Yes, we got Goodberries.

For those not in the know Goodberries is frozen custard that is the same consistency as thick soft-serve. It is delicious. Frighteningly so.

So in addition to luxury pizza ... I ate half a large concrete—the name they give their frozen custard concoctions—riven with shards of dime bar and flake.

Also I added full-fat cream.

The IBS flared like an oil well burning off gas about 11 pm and presented itself as a fist-sized lump of pain deep within my abdomen. There was no real chance in sleeping it off, even with all manner of super meds and pills gobbled. I think it was perhaps 4 am when the pain abated enough for me to sleep. I spent my time in sleeping purgatory idly flitting between my Kindle-ap-served-up book about mass-gullibility and wiki entries about the Dirty War in Argentina.

So ... note for the future about the likelihood of an IBS flare. Luxury pizza ... perhaps. Goodberries ... probably. By their powers combined; oh most definitely.

I will save Cass the trouble; slaps forehead.

(1) This blog is un-monetised so it is of no advantage to me to spruik a product or company. (adopts narrator voice from the execrable Alan Smithee version of Dune) Know this. In the year 2011 Mikey discovered Crust pizza. He knew then that he cold never sup pizza from inferior chains. 

Big walk

Went into Civic with my brother to peruse the shops. Went sans crutches. I walked from the underground car park, through the Canberra Centre and out onto London Circuit. Was on my feet, resting against walls and so forth, for a good hour. Then back to the car. Legs ached as afterwards but it still felt good to walk. 

Though I was bitterly reminded of all those days of walking without fail where, if I had to be in Civic for an appointment, I'd go for a walk first. If it was raining then circuits of the underground car park, listening to Tripod on my Mp3. Or when weather was good red-faced buffing billy style marching around the outer streets of Civic before ending the walk, heart pounding, just before where I needed to go. If it was an acupuncture session I'd be lying there, heart still a-thudding from the walk, minutes later hating having had to do that walk and resenting the fact I had to do it. Every day without fail.

And all that time all I was doing was was grinding away the last shreds of cartilage until the point I needed a fucking hip operation.

I think the next time someone abuses me for my weight I will tell them that I literally walked myself to the bone in an effort to be more as people said I should be. Can they match that? I think the fuck not.

Anyway I probably exacerbated the effort all by wearing a thick cotton jumper skivvy thing and thick track suit pants, the crotch of which on my short stout frame was very MC Hammer down low, on a day in the mid-thirties.

When we got back I sacked out on the bed, curled around a pillow, and drifted in and out of that sleep where you can almost control your dreams. Only to be woken when theBoy came home and had a terrific tantrum of having been denied what he wanted, only as he screamed and wailed, he was bouncing naked in the middle of the trampoline. I think if you've been genuinely wronged and your wails are acceptable ... you'd not be power bouncing sans clothing in the middle of a trampoline. 

Despite the uber walk though ... my leg is feeling better than yesterday and, indeed, each new day. I am just almost at pre-op level in capability now. 

Summer of George! (1)

(1) I need a punctuation mid-point symbol for the Summers for when it's neither bad (ellipses either side) or nor good (the un-spaced exclamation mark). Any ideas? 

Same page fail from the SMH

Don't get me wrong. Love the SMH. Love Fairfax. Unlike News Limited its news isn't limited.

But this a bit of a fail. 

One shouldn't throw a stone when one is in one's own glasshouse.  Especially when both stories are within the the same page.

 

Books I finished reading in 2011 (inc. audio)

You must have self-esteem to have self-esteem issues. One of my self-esteem things has been to, for a couple of years now, record for posterity what books I done gone and reads me up a storm with each calendar year. Being a fan of podcasts I have now added to "books read" to include audio books listened to.

So here's the list for 2011. Mainly fantasy on the fiction front and histories for the non-fiction section. And even some schlocky stuff like a book about Great Mysteries!; Bermuda Triangle! Greys! Gray Greys! etc. Lots of fun.

Adios 2011 list. And welcome to the 2012 list. Which remains as yet blank. Hey ... it's only day two!

Notes on the 2011 list

The order is last read downwards

The non-fiction book I got the most from was A First-Rate Madness. If you "suffer" from any form of mental difference to the norm, such as depression, bipolar, or hypomania, this book will make you feel better. In that the author shows how people who suffer mental health difference to the norm, if properly supported (either medically or through psychological assistance, or both) actually have an advantage over normals, and in political leaders, it can even be a distinct benefit.  It also handsomely destroys that mentally-deficient chain email of 'which military leader would you want?; HA—you chose Hitler! (1)

The fiction book I enjoyed the most would probably have to be The Left-Hand of God. It grabbed me from the first page and didn't let me go. The concepts explored, the archetypes used, the writing ... sheer bliss. Totally worth cracking the spine (or dialling up on the e-book reader unit of your choice).

The autobiography of Benjamin Franklin ... by Benjamin Franklin
Life on the Mississippi by Mark Twain
Blood and rage: a Cultural History of Terrorism by Michael Burleigh
My Booky Wook by Russell Brand
Too fat to fish by Artie Lange
The Rough Riders by Theodore Roosevelt
White Wolf by David Gemmell
The 100 Most Influential Military Leaders by LTCOL Michael Lee Lanning
Nudge by Richard Thaler and Cass Sunstein
Great Mysteries of the Modern World by John Pinkney
The Last Four Things By Paul Hoffman
The Left Hand of God by Paul Hoffman
War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning by Chris Hedges
A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin
The Last Guardian by David Gemmell
The Devil and Sherlock Holmes: Tales of Murder, Madness, and Obsession by David Grann
The Most Dangerous Man in the World by Andrew Fowler
A First-Rate Madness by Nassir Ghaem
Quarterly Essay 43: Bad News by Robert Manne
In the Sanctuary of Outcasts: A Memoir, by Neil White
The Jerusalem Man by David Gemmell
Fantasy Freaks and Gaming Geeks by Ethan Gilsdorf
Hunter's Moon by David Devereux
Days That Changed the World: The 50 Defining Events of World History by Hywel Williams
Curveball: Spies, Lies, and the Con Man Who Caused a War by Bob Drogin
The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson
The Protector's War by S.M. Stirling
Jarhead by Anthony Swofford
Secrets and lies - a History of CIA Mind Control & Germ Warfare by Gordon Thomas
The Victors: The men of World War Two by Stephen E Ambrose
The Good Soldiers by David Finkel
The Shellacking: Obama Presidency, The Tea Party, and The 2010 Midterm Elections by Guy Rundle
Master of the Grove by Victor Kelleher
Enigma by Robert Harris
Dies the Fire by S.M. Stirling
The National Lampoon's Animal House Book by Chris Miller
Debunking History: 152 Popular Myths Exploded by Ed Rayner and Ron Stapley
Trouble on Titan by Alan E Nourse
Coal: A human history by Barbara Freese
What Happened: Inside the Bush White House and Washington's Culture of Deception by Scott McClellan
Earth (The Book): A Visitor's Guide to the Human Race by the writers of The Daily Show
Bushwhacked: Life in George W. Bush's America by Molly Ivins and Lou Dubose
Lifeboat by Harry Harrison and Gordon R Dickson
The Technicolour Time Machine by Harry Harrison
Kim by Rudyard Kipling
The Best of Harry Harrison by Harry Harrison
Marching Powder by Rusty Young
The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents by Terry Pratchett
Swords against Ice Magic by Fritz Leiber

(1) Meme can be found on this website; but here it is replicated for ease of knowing what the fuck I am talking about. 

It is time to elect a new world leader, and only your vote counts. Here are the facts about the three leading candidates.

Candidate A: Associates with crooked politicians, and consults with astrologists. He's had two Mistresses. He also chain smokes and drinks 8 to 10 Martinis a day.

Candidate B He was kicked out of office twice, sleeps until noon, used opium in college and drinks a quart of whiskey every evening.

Candidate C He is a decorated war hero. He's a vegetarian, doesn't smoke, drinks an occasional beer and never cheated on his wife.

Candidate A is Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Candidate B is Winston Churchill.
Candidate C is Adolph Hitler.
 

The author of a First-Rate Madness explores Hitler's case history and notes that Hitler was almost certainly bipolar and that his condition was disastrously exacerbated, for both the patient and greater humanity, by the daily injection of amphetamines and testosterone ... the latter made from ground-up bull testes. Chain email, you have been served. 

Oh hello, grey light of dawn

On day two of the New Year I got to enjoy the heady delight of seeing the grey light of dawn. 

Why? My IBS.

Yes, with the TFCWM aka Steven Bradbury now waning as the major health-foci for me to worry about my much-missed standard Mikey health affliction of IBS reared itself. Perhaps it was because I had a Gaytime for breakfast? (1) Whatever the cause about 12 am mega-pain landed. Eye-watering foul farts combined with acute abdominal pain. Thanks to this visit of the Pain-Nazi it was very much a case of 'NO SLEEP FOR YOU!'

In between futile attempts at sleep I grazed on assorted Wiki entries across an array of subjects, occultists from history (due to a current book I am reading about mass-gullibility), Stephen Fry's entry (the man is a God amongst men ... the irony being he's an atheist humanist) and assorted other entries such as the one for Son of Sam, the serial killer that terrorised New York in the late 70s.

As an extended side note I loved how the killer, David Berkowitz, in a ploy to make himself sound insane as opposed to psychotic but sane, claimed he took orders from an elder demon trapped in the body of his neighbour's dog. Interestingly he's become a born again Christian whilst in the pokey, has self-denied attempts at seeking parole (though getting it would be unlikely; he killed six people and maimed six others), and is on record at campaigning against the production and or sale of serial killer memorabilia.

The latter is somewhat ironic as this issue of serial killer memorabilia—belonging to Berkowitz himself—becomes a plot device in an episode of Seinfeld. In the episode Kramer has lapsed into gambling again and is in debt to a Texan businessman at the airport over coming second best in a contest to correctly predict whether a flight will be delayed or not. In the hole for a fair amount of cash he calls Newman, Seinfeld's Baby Gerald, who is a postman ... just like Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, was. Newman holds Berkowitz's mail bag and it is this that Kramer begs Newman to bring down to the airport so he can use it as a bet stake. When Newman shows the Texan the bag he adds '... and there were a lot of dogs on his route.' I had no idea about the dog reference for the first several times I saw it. The two-parter episode the sequence is from—'the pilot'—is a classic. The double-episode ends with an airline pilot who kicked Seinfeld off a plane staring from the cockpit into the airport motel room where Seinfeld is attempting to insert himself into his girlfriend. It is a remarkable piece of sitcom goodness and another example of how well-written and how carefully steered the show was. I am in awe of all who worked on the series.

By the way the pilot was in fact a real-life pilot.

theBoy came in around 7 am, my having fallen asleep for about half an hour, to hang with me but in a whisper I told him to go to mummy instead. I then struggled to get some sleep, after that is another semi-failed attempt to make doody in the toilet and unleash some more of the foul wind brewed within.

Finally I gave up, rose from the near-dead, and after some light procrastination made The Purgatory Cart (2) my temporary female dog. 

... Summer of George...

(1) No, I didn't chug several quarts of man fluid, I mean the delightfully tasty ice-cream of that name. 

(2) (Cue Wheel of Fortune Prize Gallery Music [2a]) Hand-crafted from the hide of a rhinoceros by Cassandra (2b), an elderly tattooed artisan famed for her ability to work with the remains of any animal, even cryptozoological kinds, and who dwells in the high cloud-wreathed hills of our mutually-dwelled-within suburb, this charming item will liven even the dullest home.

(2a) See from 12:30.
(2b) We don't actually see eye-to-eye on everything. I, for example, believe Seinfeld to be the epitome of well-crafted situation comedy. Cass thinks it is "pond scum". 

Nice things happen too

I tend to piss and moan about crap on this them thar blog. In that I expect that when it comes to posts that are not about members of the indomitable trio who are not me, the subject matter tends to be negative in tone. As in this shitty thing happened to me or insert-subject-here gives me the shits. Or how much I hate Tony Abbott or one of his linked-to righty chums (George Pell, Joe Hockey, Andrew Robb, both Bishops etc.).

But outside of ranting about things that give me the shits, nice stuff does happen. As I lay here, passing stinky wind like a mother fucker (though exactly why a pattern of disturbing incestuous behaviour would characterise your anal gaseous emissions I know not), I was reminded of something nice that happened just before I finished up work for the year.

A contractor we worked with dropped past our building to say Merry Christmas. She very naughtily brought a gift with her - any gift of $20 or more needs high-level approval to accept and any gift below that amount needs your boss to say it's okay. In this case it was a box of Cadbury's favourites. After she left I went around the work station pods and gave them away like a sort of Jesus and the feeding of the five thousand crossed with Gilliam's Brazil.

But that wasn't the nice thing that happened. It's what she said about working with me; 'We love working with you and we love all your emails. I read them out to the rest of the office.'

I have a conceit that I can write. So when I write I try and write in an entertaining, and mostly lucid, manner, and do so in my own odd little idiosyncratic style. Even if it's something as simple as interacting with a contractor via email. Such as footnoting a simple follow-up piece of corro with a stream-of-consciousness description of my just-had lunch, the stream studded with links to Wikipedia entries or blessed with additional sub-footnoting.

After-all we spend so much of our time working to live ... it helps to inject a little fun for all concerned along the way.

And how lucky was I to find people that actually took enjoyment from it?

Anyway, I resolve to try and remember that nice things happen too and it's not always just raining shit.

~FIN~